


Ready To Fall

by vitamindesi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitamindesi/pseuds/vitamindesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was on a cliff. Both figuratively and literally. He could hear the angry roar of waves crashing at the bottom and if he leaned over just enough, he could see large jagged rocks sticking out of the ocean. He chuckled to himself, flopping back onto the ground, wincing as the pebbles dug into his shoulders and took another swig of whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready To Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. Warning for lots of self-loathing, depression, alcoholism, suicidality, suicide attempt...  
> From a prompt on Destiel Prompt of The Day  
> Lyrics from Ready To Fall, by Rise Against.

_Wings won’t take me, heights don’t phase me_

_So take a step, but don’t look down_

* * *

Dean was drunk. Actually, if he really put any sort of conscious thought into it, he was far more than drunk. Hammered. Smashed. He’d left Sam in the motel room with a bewildered look on his face as the door slammed shut. They were supposed to be hunting. They’d been in California for six days already, with no new leads and their presence had begun to grate on the nerves of the locals.

Consequently, Sam had begun to grate on Dean’s. It was only small things that he’d begun to notice, things that Dean had tried to hide, but he’d noticed nonetheless. For instance, Dean was always the one who insisted that four hours of sleep was all he needed to function. So how come every spare moment he had, he was crawling under the blankets in the motel, burying his head under the pillows? Several times, Sam had also found himself waking up in the mornings to find Dean flopped on his own bed, an empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingertips. He couldn’t recall at any time, Dean buying a new bottle and he couldn’t help the worry that crawled throughout him.

Dean was on a cliff. Both figuratively and literally. He could hear the angry roar of waves crashing at the bottom and if he leaned over just enough, he could see large jagged rocks sticking out of the ocean. He chuckled to himself, flopping back onto the ground, wincing as the pebbles dug into his shoulders and took another swig of whiskey.

He didn’t know why he did it anymore, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t know why he bothered to do anything anymore. He had followed his father’s orders to the letter and now he was in hell. He had gone to hell and back and then some to save Sam’s life and he was resented for that. Kevin had died and he couldn’t stop that. What was the point? What was the point in trying to be the big brother he promised he’d be if his only payment came in the form of Sam’s poorly hidden glares and disdainful looks from Castiel?

Against his will, Dean could feel the pressure of building tears below his eyes. He grunted and drank again, fighting it. Castiel. Castiel, who had rebelled, fallen, fought, all for him. All for what? He was a pathetic excuse for a hunter, even a human being.

With that thought, Dean began to cry in earnest. He found himself sitting up to avoid choking on his snot, feet precariously close to the ledge as he sobbed.

What was the point anymore? He could feel his gun resting reassuringly at his hip, the weight and cool of the metal giving him almost a calming clarity.

What if he didn’t have to deal with it all anymore? Didn’t have to deal with Sammy’s pitiful looks, or anyone’s for that matter. Didn’t have to deal with the guilt of carrying the lives he couldn’t save. Didn’t have to deal with the constant self-hatred he carried with him, the constant feeling of _never being good enough_.

He pushed himself up, swiping his arm beneath his nose, staggering to a relative standing position as he fished his gun from his pants, his other hand keeping a firm grip on the whiskey. The weight of the gun and bottle in his hands brought an icy feeling to his veins, an eerie calm as his tears dried. He was done. He was finally, well and truly done with existing. It was exhausting, keeping that feeling buried within him and now, acknowledging as it wished to be, he felt oddly lighter.

Just as he began to lift the gun, a flutter of wings jolted him suddenly. He whirled to see Castiel standing behind him, fists clenched angrily, his trenchcoat flapping ominously in the wind. “Cas!” he slurred happily, raising the bottle. Or was it the gun? He couldn’t remember which was in which hand. “Glad ‘ou could join me. Had’ta say g’bye to _somebody_.”

In a mere breath Castiel was suddenly in front of him, his fists wrapped around the fabric of Dean’s T-shirt, pulling their faces close. “What the _hell_ do you think you are doing Dean?” he growled. His voice was so low and Dean vaguely thought it sounded similar to the waves crashing below him.

He laughed, trying and failing to disengage Castiel’s fists from his shirt. “I’m done, man. ‘M fucking _done_.”

“With your _life_?” Castiel roared in response, his blue eyes flashing frighteningly. He shook Dean enough to jostle the gun and bottle from his hands, the bottle shattering at his feet, whiskey soaking his boots and the bottom of his jeans.

Dean could only regard him with sad green eyes, eyes that Castiel once thought held the universe within them. They were now dead, hopeless. “I got nothin’ left, Cas,” Dean mumbled, averting his eyes somewhere beyond Castiel’s left shoulder.

Castiel frowned, a corner of his lips dropping. “What about Sam? What about _me_?” he shook Dean again at the final word.

Renewed anger bubbled in Dean. “Newsflash: Sam fucking hates me Cas! And you! You’re….I don’t...You just-” he couldn’t find the words to describe what Castiel was. _Too good for him._

Castiel deflated, the anger in his eyes fading to sadness. “You don’t think you deserve me.” It was a statement, his voice quiet.

“You shoulda left me in the pit, man. Shoulda saved your halo, your brothers.”

Castiel released his grip on Dean’s shirt, only after having taken a few steps further back from the edge of the cliff. “You saved the world, Dean. Why is that not enough for you?” he sounded sad, regretful, as though Dean’s suicidality was his own fault.

Dean slumped, his body suddenly seeming too heavy to be standing on its own anymore. He looked sadly at the stain of alcohol on the ground, wishing he hadn’t dropped the bottle. “I hate myself Cas,” he whispered, not looking up. “Every goddamn day that I have to wake up. I keep asking God, or _someone_ out there to put me out of my misery. I can’t even look myself in the mirror.” When Castiel didn’t say anything, he continued. “Cas, I really don’t think my existence makes that big of a dent in the world. I swear man, just let me disappear and you’ll see.”

Castiel let himself see. He let himself view this alternate timeline where Dean took his own life, snatched it right out of the fabric of time and space with one well-placed bullet. He watched Sam sink into a monotonous life, after having heard of the John Doe that sounded too much like Dean being brought to the morgue, incapable of bringing himself to view the body. He watched the demons and angels rejoice alike while Sam could only lock himself down tightly, warding everywhere he went, no longer having a faithful partner to watch his back. He watched the cases the brothers would never solve go untouched, murders and disappearances that Sam and Dean would have stopped like they always did.

“I have seen,” he finally said quietly. “I have seen and you are incorrect, Dean. Your life is important.”

Dean snorted, trying to step back, closer to the ledge, but Castiel’s hand shot forward, wrapping once again, around the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t believe me,” he said, his head cocking to the side.

Again, Dean laughed, giving up on detangling Castiel’s hand from his shirt. “Of course I don’t man! Why should I?”

Castiel’s head was still tilted at an angle and he lift a gentle hand to cup Dean’s face, his thumb pressing lightly to his temple.

Dean’s head was suddenly filled with snapshots of different people. With a gasp, he realized that these were all the people he and Sam had rescued on their hunts. They were all happy and smiling, hugging their families, shopping with their children, enjoying their lives.

Dean wanted to collapse, he felt as though he were shattering. “‘M never gonna have that, Cas. What’s the point in trying? I can’t save them all, can’t even save myself.” his voice was small, hopeless.

Castiel was floundering. How to restore the will to live in a person? He thought he ought to have known, after having restored every molecule of Dean Winchester’s body, he should have saved that small piece of information, been able to access it again.

“You matter, Dean.” he finally spoke again, his hands on Dean’s shoulders, shaking him again. “Your existence makes a difference. You _will_ find happiness. I swear you will. But you can’t bow out, not yet, not now.”

Dean finally looked up, meeting Castiel’s eyes again. “Why do you care so much? Why does it matter to you?”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. He was just now beginning to understand Dean, why he was feeling this way. He couldn’t get his head around it at all. He had seen the creation of several universes, had fought a war in heaven, yet he couldn’t work his mind around Dean’s desire to end his own life.

“You’ll always matter to me, Dean. And I will always care for you.” His voice felt like gravel over Dean’s skin and he felt the dam inside of him breaking.

He was just so _angry_. He felt cheated, he wished that Death would just come and collect him, take him away from it all. The tenuous cord of control he had snapped, recoiling within him and suddenly he was slumped over Castiel, sobbing in a manner that would have been embarrassing had he not been so drunk or miserable. Castiel merely stood there, solid like the rock he always was, supporting Dean’s shaking form, a reassuring hand over the middle of his back.

Dean wasn’t sure how long they stood there. He felt mildly guilty for snotting up Castiel’s trenchcoat, but he blinked and suddenly the spot of dampness wasn’t there anymore and he had almost enough energy to muster a smile. His eyes felt sore and puffy and his head was beginning to throb, right at his neck.

“Do you want pie?” Castiel blurted. Dean leaned back, raising a curious eyebrow. “Pie,” he repeated. “Pie always makes you happy. There’s a burger place several towns over from this one. They have your favorite beer and I just watched a chef pull an apple pie from the oven.”

Dean wanted to laugh. “If that what you were doing this whole time I was crying on you?” his voice was ragged, throat sore from the sobs that had involuntarily ripped from him.

Castiel shrugged, still holding eye contact. “You said that I do not do well with...interaction. So I did what I could.”

Dean gave him a watery smile. “Never change, man. Ever.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Castiel’s face. “I didn’t plan on it Dean. Let’s go.”

His fingers brushed Dean’s forehead and for a split second, he felt lost again, as though he were falling and then he blinked and found himself outside of a diner, with Castiel’s blue eyes sparkling at him, his headache and drunkenness no longer present. He swallowed, following the angel through the door. He wasn’t sure if their conversation was over, he didn’t think he wanted to be. He wanted to know if Castiel would have even let him jump, at all.

“I’m never going to let you jump Dean,” Castiel’s voice worked through the din of the diner, reaching Dean’s ear. “I’ll always find a reason for you not to.”

* * *

 

_I found a shoulder to lean on_

_An infallible reason to live all by itself_

_I took one last look_

_From the heights that I once loved_

_And then I ran like hell_


End file.
